


Perilous Travels With Myself And Another

by KoreArabin



Category: Ripper Street, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows (2010)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 16:25:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KoreArabin/pseuds/KoreArabin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Detective Inspector Edmund Reid, fearful of the effect that the news of frighteningly powerful new weapons being smuggled into London will have on the local population, already restless after the Ripper murders, enlists specialist help.  </p>
<p>Colonel Sebastian Moran is reunited with an old flame, Sergeant Bennet Drake, when asked to undertake a mission to uncover the source of the weapons, in an adventure which will prove both thrilling and perilous for them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have struggled so much with this. Originally it was set to be a simple smutfest between Sebastian and Bennet, reunited after years apart. Then it was going to involve Sebastian being kidnapped, and Moriarty rushing in to rescue him, but that didn't seem right, if Sebastian was still emotionally involved with Bennet.
> 
> So instead, uncharacteristically for me, it's going to be an old fashioned adventure, like the John Buchan or Erskine Childers novels I love so much. And there will be smut, I promise, but only once the story gets going.
> 
> Oh - and the title is truly awful. I shall change it when I get inspiration, or someone just gives me a better one...

For a few seconds, when he comes to, Sebastian isn't sure where he is. His head throbs, from the beer and whisky he consumed earlier, yes, no doubt, but also from the bloody hard thump with the truncheon that sodding copper gave him. He's in some dark, dank, what seems to be a _cupboard_ , maybe four foot by two foot wide, and about four foot high. It bloody stinks, too - is he locked in a bloody midden, for fuck's sake?

As his eyes adjust, he can see that one side of his tiny, cramped prison is made up of metal bars. A cell, then. More like a sodding oubliette, but clearly a cell, none the less. Beyond the bars, a dark, low ceilinged space, dark bricked and a studded metal door set into the opposite wall.

Where is he? A visit, for old times sake, to the Eagle, a swagger up and down the City Road, in and out the Eagle, tipping the wink to some of the old toms he knows from way back, _madams_ now, if you don't mind, with fresh, pink-cheeked girls blushing and pouting beside them. Yes, indeed, fresh, plump lovelies were what he wanted, once, a long time ago, in a different life. No longer, though, no longer.

A loud clang shakes him from his reverie. The studded metal door swings open, and there, lighting the gas burner, is another ghost from another life.

"Bennet Drake. Jesus."

"No, just me, Bennet. No need to genuflect, Bastian."

Christ, how fucking relaxed is he, as he saunters over to Sebastian's cage, never taking his eyes off of his former lover.

"Still the same old Bastian, eh, even though you've gone all poncey Mayfair? Employed now like a proper little fetch and carrier, eh? For some egghead professor? There's no way I believe that, Bastian. There's more to that arrangement than meets the eye."

Sebastian looks at him warily. Bennet. Bennet Drake. How the years slip away, and he remembers the two of them, tangled in each other's arms, panting, spent, kissing as if it was the last kiss they'd ever share. Which it was, that last time.

"Why'm I here, Drake? You've got no fuckin' jurisdiction to keep me locked up in some soddin' cellar."

Drake stares at his former lover, briefly stretching a hand through the bars to stroke Sebastian's cheek, before withdrawing it rapidly, to prevent Sebastian grabbing it. "You'll see, Bastian, very soon. My Boss reckons you're a clever lad, and he's asked me to help him find out exactly how clever you are. And you know me, Bastian. I'm so very good at finding out exactly what bad boys like you're up to."


	2. Chapter 2

"This is him, Bennet? This is Moran?"

Sebastian takes in the man who's now joined them in the dimly lit cellar. Tall, handsome, in a classical, heroic, sort of way, not a well worn, weather beaten face like Drake's, or a pointed, freckled, visage like his own. Well dressed, too, the jaunty fashionable plaid making him look thicker and wider than he is, probably, underneath.

"So who're you, tartan? Some Scotch twat, or one of Mrs Brown's bastards?"

"Is he always like this, Bennet? Does he imagine he's being provocative?"

Drake shrugs, and pulls up a chair, turning it around so that he can sit astride it, resting his arms on the back. This is going to be interesting.

"Moran. Apologies, it's _Colonel_ Moran, isn't it? My name is Reid, Detective Inspector Edmund Reid. I am in command here at H Division. My sergeant, Drake here, I believe you know. We are just awaiting my surgeon, Captain Jackson, and then we can begin."

Sebastian stares at the man. What on earth is he rattling on about? And when are they going to let him out of this damned cage?

"If you're hoping for a nice friendly little chat, I ain't exactly sitting comfortably, like, locked here in this bloody cupboard."

"No, well, I'm afraid there was little I could do about that. The cells upstairs are rather too public for the discussion I wish to have with you, and I rather imagined you would welcome our respecting your privacy, Colonel."

"Privacy? Let me out of this damned cupboard and _then_ I may talk to you in a civilised manner, copper. Drake here can tell you I ain't the sort to relish being caged like an animal."

"Despite your adventures with the beasts of the sub-continent, Colonel?"

Reid nods to Drake, who steps forward with a bundle of keys. "My sergeant here, whom I understand you know well, told me that I should not be able to retain the fierce Colonel Sebastian Moran for - I cannot say _questioning_ \- as that smacks of some suspicion on our part, and we have no such thoughts regarding you, Colonel. No, I should be most grateful for your time in discussing a problem which we currently here in H Division find most taxing. It is a problem which requires specialist knowledge, Colonel, and in connection with the investigation of that problem I shall be most indebted to you for any assistance which you can render to us."

Moran springs lithely from the cage and immediately sizes up to Reid. "If it's my help you're looking for, _copper_ , knocking me over the bloody head and locking me in a sodding cage ain't exactly _conducive_ , you know?"

Reid sighs, whilst keeping entirely still. He will not give an inch to this man, with his reputation for being a wild but cold-blooded killer, and from whom he can sense a continuous, menacing, miasma of violence. 

"Your reputation preceded you, Colonel. If we had approached you in the street or in the public house, I foresaw some resistance on your part in accompanying us back here to the station, and I certainly did not wish to cause any embarrassment for you in appearing to drag you here forcibly."

"So why not send Bennet here? I'd have come along with him quick smart. Me and Ben go back a long way; certainly far enough for me to try to help him out if he'd asked me to."

Reid nods. "Yes, I see that now. My mistake, Colonel. My good sergeant here is an excellent policeman, of that you can have no doubt, but he is, also - and I know that he would not demur at my saying so - sometimes something too much of the strong-arm or pugilist in his endeavours."

Moran snorts. "I know well - without doubt far better than _you_ \- how handy Ben is in a scrap, copper, but he ain't no mindless thug. Sounds to me like you've got something of the wrong opinion of "your" sergeant. He's a bloody good bloke, and not one to court a fight for a fight's sake. Perhaps you'd better let Ben do the talking here, or I might get a bit too ticked off with you to want to help, even supposin’ I can."

Drake moves to intervene, when thankfully the tension in the air, almost at combustion point, is broken by the jaunty entrance of Jackson, cigarette hanging from his lip and looking his habitually unconcerned self.

"Good day, Reid. Drake. For what have I been summoned here from the heat of my luxurious bed?"


	3. Chapter 3

"Jackson. Good of you to join us. This gentleman here is Colonel Sebastian Moran, a former army colleague of Drake's. Colonel Moran, this is Captain Homer Jackson, another army man, although in his case, a surgeon of the American army."

Jackson inclines his head cordially towards Moran, and Moran returns the compliment, respectful of each other's military antecedents, even if said militaries are situated an ocean apart.

Reid begins to speak. "You will all, of course, be aware of the terrible murders perpetrated nearby in this Division over the last year or so. The heinous crimes of the self-styled "Jack the Ripper" can scarcely have escaped the attention of even the most poorly educated, remotely situated inhabitant of this country, and yet all our investigations have got us precisely - nowhere. Even now, the Ripper having remained silent and inactive for several months, the local populace still move at night in fear, and rightly so. Who can tell whether this madman will strike again?"

"As if that of itself were not a vexatious enough issue, there are of course the constant rumblings of an undercurrent of anti-immigrant feeling towards the many Jewish people who have chosen to seek a better life here in England. You may or may not be aware of the pronouncements made by some of our MPs and Lords on these issues, with the result that there are many in the local area ready to blame these crimes, with their unprecedented barbarity, on our Jewish immigrant community, and The Star has only added fuel to the flames with its sensationalist headlines about "Leather Apron". “

Here Moran interjects. “I read about that. Some Jewish fella, weren’t it, they reckoned was involved?”

Reid sighs. “Indeed. The leather apron is of course synonymous with workers amongst the Jewish immigrants, and The Star’s articles also emphasised the suspect’s "Hebrew" appearance. This in turn has fed a growing belief amongst the local populace that since no Englishman could be capable of such brutal and gruesome crimes, they must have been committed by a foreigner and so, gentlemen, we in the local police force have become concerned that this press speculation concerning the murderer’s ethnic origin might easily erupt into full scale anti-Jewish rioting."

Reid clears his throat and pauses. "I am sorry to come at the gist of the problem by such a circuitous route, but it is important that Colonel Moran understands the background to our present dilemma."

Moran nods. “Go on.”

“As if we in the police force here did not have enough to occupy ourselves with these murders and the everyday criminality of the area, we have recently discovered that weapons, the like of which we have never before witnessed, are being smuggled into the country through our London docks. We do not yet know precisely the origin of these weapons, but our best intelligence is that they are being manufactured somewhere in Germany. But where, and the route by which they are transported to this country, is unknown.”

“What sort of weapons, Reid?” Moran’s curiosity is most certainly piqued at the mention of such mysterious weapons.

“Oh, pistols which can fire repeatedly, without having to be re-loaded. Small, hand-held _bombs_ , for want of a better word, which can be thrown and explode immediately. Rumours, although we have not yet found proof of their existence, of chemical gases which incapacitate and maim on being inhaled. Weapons which, their existence here in London being revealed to the local populace, will cause yet more unrest. Which, being manufactured in Germany, and added to the prejudice that the Ripper is a European immigrant Jew, could tip that unrest over into panic and disorder.” 

Reid smiles grimly. “And we here in H Division do not need any more disorder than that which already exists within our area, Colonel.”

“So what do you want of me?”

“I want two things of you, Colonel. The first is to examine these weapons and give me your opinion on their operation and on any indication of where they are being manufactured. The second is to act as my agent – a spy if you like – to travel to the continent and attempt to uncover the source of these weapons.”


End file.
